The Aftermath
by SuperKateB
Summary: Delko experiences the second kind of aftermath in a way he never imagined. (DelkoSpeedle, spoilers for "Lost Son" and "Killer Date".)


**The Aftermath  
****A CSI: Miami Fanfiction  
****Written by Kate "SuperKate" Butler**

As far as Eric Delko was concerned, there were two kinds of aftermaths.

The first kind of aftermath was the positive kind, the one that leaves you tingling with warmth and satisfaction. He'd learned about this aftermath as a boy, when he'd finished reading a truly good book or basked in the high of finishing a fast-paced 100-meter swim competition. The feeling of completeness overtook his entire body in moments of these aftermaths, and nothing – not even squabbling words with his sisters, a harsh word from his father, or the memory of a stressful morning – could deny him that feeling of absolute bliss.

There were other moments of these aftermaths now that he was older. He remembered them at the idle moments in his day, watching the computer monitor with unfocused eyes as AFIS shuffled through its databanks. He remembered the aftermaths in which he leaned against cool glass and steel, his breath crystallizing on the air as the fulfilling feeling of skin against skin and sweat against the cool night breeze overwhelmed his senses. This aftermath was their fingers interlacing as they allowed themselves a few moments of respite, basking in the afterglow, empty and yet still incredibly full, the aftermath of one moment of wonder in a cold, dark, lonely night.

He remembered the aftermaths in other locations, too. His chest pressed against brick, the grime and soot of a forgotten alleyway behind that horrible art-movie theatre-and-coffeehouse he'd been dragged to, the sound of strangers' feet on pavement and cars rushing down the street. That aftermath had lacked the sweet surrender and the tangible affection; it was as gritty and grimy as the brick wall and the urine-stained concrete, as rough as the white-spray-painted graffiti baring the words "fuck you" that had not yet been fully removed from the nearest wall. In that aftermath, there were no interlaced fingers or soft caresses, just the rustle of denim being replaced and a sly, playful smirk.

The aftermath of spilling coffee on his white dress shirt three minutes before leaving the apartment, and the levity of the situation left him with a smile. The aftermath of throwing out the newspaper before the crossword was finished and the accompanied, overdramatic annoyance left him chuckling. The aftermath of those warm Miami midnights, entangled in the sheets, half-asleep and yet full aware of arms around his waist… Those were the aftermaths he lived for.

Of course, as with everything in life, there was a duality to aftermaths. The darker cousin of the positive aftermath was the dark one, the kind of aftermath that haunts you every time you close your eyes. He'd learned about this aftermath when he'd listened to his father's struggles in making a name for himself in America.

After the September 11th terrorist attacks, he'd read countless stories and articles on the depression and pain of those who had witnessed the attacks and survived, and the coping methods of these men and women. Addictions ran rampant amongst these scarred souls, it seemed, and he could remember setting down the magazine of the week and feeling nothing but pity and pain.

He'd never imagined he'd experience that aftermath first hand, a few years later.

Intellectually, they both knew it could have happened. They both knew the danger involved, the chance of an investigation going awry and ending badly. Occasionally, they'd even joke about it over beer and nachos, the Miami Heat game a backdrop to their banter. He, personally, would go down in a vice-related bust, surrounded by chesty women in next-to-no clothing. They'd laughed about it, then, the lighthearted teasing meant innocently enough.

Neither of them ever expected that Tim – smarter, faster, more aware of the job than he'd ever been – would be shot in a jewelry store in the line of duty.

Now, Eric knew the second aftermath all too well. He remembered best the initial shock, that body-numbing pain covering his entire form, overwhelming his senses. He remembered not being able to eat, sleep, or function properly. He remembered holding back tears at work and weeping openly at home despite the fact that he did not really feel any pain. The only emotion was one of profound loss, profound emptiness, and profound loneliness.

The pain never hit, even after so many long, lonely months. Only emptiness welled within. And if there was one skill he'd never excelled at, it was filling the emptiness.

Yes, for Eric Delko, there were two kinds of aftermaths. His fingers flew across the keypad on his Blackberry, filling in the blank response form faster than he'd known he could type. Around him, the club throbbed with its own pulse, its own private beating.

The last time he'd been in this club, Tim had been there, too, supplying them both with a steady supply of beer and friendly – sometimes too much so – ladies.

That had been the night they'd wandered, half-drunkenly, over to the building across the street. That had been the night that their breath had prickled on air. That had been the first time together and the first aftermath, the interlacing of fingers and the warmth both inside and out, the completion perfect, satisfying, and sweet.

His Blackberry buzzed. "Meet me across the street." His spine tingled, and he felt his blood warm. Once again, for the first time, he felt warm.

The first kind of aftermath had been because Tim Speedle and the pure, unadulterated bliss he'd found in the form of that one, wonderful man.

Eric switched off his Blackberry and pocketed it, moving towards the door.

The second kind of aftermath had been because of Tim Speedle as well, and lead to addiction, sorrow, and darkness.

The woman across the street was nothing more than a shadow in the Miami night, and, though he knew it wouldn't last any longer than the tryst, he reveled in his rekindled ability to feel emotion, anyway.

**Fin.**

Standard Disclaimer: Bruckheimer and CBS own this show and related characters. I borrow because I care. That is all.

Author's Note: Okay. Let's review. In "Killer Date," Delko more-or-less admits that he's been sleeping around because Speedle died. How can you not intuit slash from that? Jeez! Are we trying to make me write more, or something?

Much credit to Cassie, who helped me come up with a lot of this. (Blame the raunchy glass and alley sex on her.)

April 19, 2005  
10:16 p.m.


End file.
